


Whatever trouble the day might bring

by Barbara69



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:45:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbara69/pseuds/Barbara69
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos stepped into the street, turning left to make his way towards the garrison, his hand shifting to lightly rest on the pommel of his rapier. He was seldom wrong when his sixth sense sprang into action and years of soldiering had made him more alert to any shift in his surroundings than most people would notice, so even though there was nothing unusual to be seen or heard, he knew with unwavering certainty that trouble lay ahead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever trouble the day might bring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [M_LadyinWaiting (Tanis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanis/gifts).



> This is my first story I ever wrote, fandom or elsewhere, and English is not my first language, so please bear with me. I never intended to write and never intended to post anything, but, well, here it is. The wonderful person who inspired and nudged me to start writing knows who I mean. All her fault.
> 
> A HUGE thank you to M_LadyinWaiting(Tanis) for the beta. All remaining mistakes and typos are my own.
> 
> This is set after Season 2, but AU. War has not yet been declared to Spain and Aramis has (of course!) never left the Musketeers.

He knew something was not right the moment he stepped out of his door. Athos stopped on the threshold, eyes half lidded as he stared into a distant nothing, or so it would seem to anyone glancing his way at this moment. 

In fact, Athos was taking in his surroundings without moving his head or even his eyes; ears strained for any unusual sound in the busy narrow Parisian street, eyes looking for something which might stick out from the usual morning routine, a rider on a horse that should not be there or a _clochard_ in the street he had never seen before. He could hear a couple of women at the end of the street, fretting over whatever they deemed important in their mundane lives, and the bells of Sainte-Chapelle were announcing the beginning of the eighth hour of the day. Everything seemed as normal as any morning in this little corner of Paris. 

Athos stepped into the street, turning left to make his way towards the garrison, his hand shifting to lightly rest on the pommel of his rapier. He was seldom wrong when his sixth sense sprang into action and years of soldiering had made him more alert to any shift in his surroundings than most people would notice, so even though there was nothing unusual to be seen or heard, he knew with unwavering certainty that trouble lay ahead. Picking up speed he soon met Porthos at the corner of Rue Baillet, the most likely point where he might stumble over his brother on his way to the garrison. Porthos was already waiting for Athos as was his habit after wasting a night playing cards in one of the taverns flanking Rue Baillet. 

Not that Porthos would call it a waste, especially after a night like this where he once again had made a good fortune cheating against some Red Guard or other. Pushing himself away from the archway where he had spent his time waiting, he darted a look towards Athos, face more sombre than it should have been after winning a bag of money, a flicker of doubt crossing his face, gone almost before it was there. 

“What's going on?” Porthos asked in lieu of a proper greeting. 

Only slightly surprised that Porthos, too, had sensed the oddness of this morning, Athos just shrugged with one shoulder, not stopping in his tracks. “Not sure yet, but I hope to find out soon.” 

Porthos fell in step with Athos, wondering about the words Athos had muttered, but determined to see solved whatever trouble the day might bring. 

When they reached the gate to the garrison, Athos let his gaze roam over the courtyard, seeing nothing unusual besides the morning routine of the Musketeers Garrison. If something as dire as a declaration of war against Spain had arisen, the courtyard would be much more buzzing. If the king or queen or the dauphin had died, though last he'd checked they had all seemed to be hale and hearty, albeit maybe a little megalomaniac as regards the king, he would already have heard the bells all over Paris announcing the death. Same applied if Spain had been so impudent as to declare war on France or, god forbid, the return of the black death to Paris, but no such thing had occurred over the last couple of hours. 

Still, the nagging feeling that something was wrong remained. Making a beeline for their usual table where he could see Aramis just rising from where he had been sitting confirmed his feeling. Someone who did not know Aramis as well as Athos did might not have seen anything odd, but the brief look of horror he saw shining in Aramis' eyes before he gained control again and put on a more neutral, cordial look made Athos' stomach lurch. 

His thoughts started somersaulting at an incredible pace. Somehow, after all and despite all the efforts they had put into destroying Rochefort and saving the queen, Louis must have found out about Aramis and the queen. Had not Richelieu claimed he knew all their secrets and threatened to bring them to light, even from beyond his grave? What if he somehow, through whatever evil sources he used to have at hand, had been able to give proof to the king, and more importantly, convince Louis of the truth behind it? Or was there something physical which had given the dauphin's true parentage away? Some birthmark? Did Aramis have a unique birthmark? He could not remember. Why had this possibility never before occurred to him, why had he never asked? Why had Aramis never asked the queen? Or had he? 

“Athos, you are late.” Aramis stood and briefly sized Athos up, before exchanging a quick, intense glance with Porthos, looking away again and half turning towards the table. He swiped a hand over his face, as if he were tired or was chasing away unwanted thoughts, but it was not quick enough, for Athos was sure he saw the corner of Aramis' mouth flinch and his brow furrow. 

“So, where is d'Artagnan?” Athos looked for their youngest who was usually the first to sit at the table and wait for the rest of the Inseparables to gather, no matter how late it had been the night before when he had returned from palace duty or a mission. 

Porthos looked alarmed and searched the courtyard for the Gascon. “Seems he is not here. He should have been well back by now.” 

Aramis played with his hat in his hands, before putting it on his head, only to shift it back and forth for awhile, as if he could not decide if he was comfortable with wearing it or not. “I have not seen him this morning, but....” he trailed off, again throwing a short glance towards Athos and looking away again. 

Athos felt something dreadful settle in his stomach. 

D'Artagnan.

The young Gascon had grown so much on him ever since the day he'd stormed into the garrison, rapier drawn and willing to lay down his life in revenge for his father's death. He was rash, cheeky, reckless, incredibly loyal and more than Athos felt he deserved to be allowed to call a brother. Facing a death squad would have been easier to bear than the thought that something had happened to their youngest. Just as he felt Porthos' hand settle on his shoulder, Treville stepped out onto the porch above them, barking some orders to Étienne, Arnaud and Loïc before turning his attention to the men below him. 

“Athos, Aramis, Porthos, my office. Now.” 

Athos looked up and saw an indefinable look on Treville's face. The captain opened his mouth as if he wanted to add something, then closed it again with an audible click and a grim expression and retreated to his office. 

“We better go up then,” Porthos murmured, “who knows what else this day has in store for us.”

Aramis was already halfway up the stairs and Porthos once more quickly clasped Athos shoulder before also ascending the stairs to Treville's office. Athos had to take a deep breath before he followed his brothers; whatever Treville had to tell them, he would meet it with his usual stoic face and bear it with all the countenance his father never tired of telling him a comte must show in any situation.

Naturally, when he closed the door there was no sign of d'Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos were already standing to attention in front of Treville's desk. The captain had busied himself with some papers, before finally glancing up to look each man in the face. 

On his face, or so it seemed to Athos, the captain lingered a little longer, eyes widening ever so slightly before he pushed back the chair, raising himself to stand hunched over the desk, harrumphing before he spoke. “Athos....” he tried, before clearing his throat again, almost unable to look at his lieutenant at all. 

Athos knew what had to be coming and tried to brace himself for it, glad that Aramis and Porthos were there beside him, always had been at his side for what seemed like more than just the past couple of years, bearing his burdens with him, unasked but willingly nevertheless. Though now they both seemed to shuffle nervously. Surely they were also aware of what the captain was trying to tell them.

Athos would not go so far as to wish that Aramis' adultery and the knowledge of it being proved to the king might be the topic of this coming conversation, but he would gladly march to war with Spain, if only d'Artagnan was at his side. Porthos and Aramis, too, of course, but they were not the ones who weren't present right now. 

Treville was just about to speak again, determined to address the topic without further delay, when they heard the sound of heavy boots running up the stairs outside. There was not a moment to spare even the tiniest thought about what might be coming - which might have been anything from the Red Guards coming to arrest Aramis, again, to a messenger bringing the news that Spanish troops had crossed the border - before the door burst open, framing d'Artagnan, who came to a complete stand still. 

“Athos”, he wheezed, trying to catch his breath, “there you are!” 

Athos, confused, glanced to Aramis and Porthos who took one look towards the young man and couldn't hold their laughter anymore.

D'Artagnan took one step towards Athos, outstretching his arm, offering him his..... “Here, your hat. Seems you left it in the tavern last night. I just stumbled over a bunch of Red Guards and would you believe it, they had the guts to walk past me with your hat on and boasting about ... how ... and I ... Athos?”

His arm still outstretched, d'Artagnan looked from Aramis to Porthos to Treville and back to Athos who had turned white as a sheet and now had a deep purple crawling up his neck and cheeks.

“What's wrong?” d'Artagan demanded of the standing quartet, and to Athos, “Didn't you feel awkward without your hat? I have never seen you without it and thought you probably would want it back because you might feel, umm, naked without it?” 

Aramis braced himself on Porthos laughing so hard that tears streamed down his face while Porthos threw back his head, his barking laughter deafening in the small room. Treville just smiled and summed it up. “ _Mon dieu_ , Athos, you gave me a real scare, the likes of which only the cardinal has been able to give. I don't think I have ever seen you without that hat of yours, wasn't even sure if you ever took it off for sleeping or else. I feared something terrible must have transpired.”

“This really is a sight to behold. Not sure if I could get used to it, though,” Aramis managed to gasp between laughing and wiping tears from his face.

D'Artagnan smirked. “Who'd have thought that he really has hair underneath and is not hiding a half-bald head?”

Athos snatched his hat from d'Artagnan's hand, more embarrassed than he ever thought he could feel and settled it back where it belonged, making sure to pull the brim down as far as possible without clouding his sight as he sighed inwardly. He'd just known something was not right the moment he stepped out of his door.....

FIN.


End file.
